Best Bagging Poems
One epic Saturday morning
The heavens and winds subduing
To permit my soul to freeing
The escaping on the road enjoying
When I heave and legs pounding
Heart throbbing and hands waving
To every car and person passing
Over every pothole and stone leaping
Can’t stop for anything or nothing
When this rhythm gets me going
Faster and further I’m moving
Miles and miles of distance covering
Over hills and valleys travelling
Bridges and train tracks crossing
Cool breezes in my face blowing
My body sweating starts tingling
From head to toe so exhilarating
My heart smiling my soul calming
My thoughts clearing my mind opening
Legs stretching home striding
Sirens ringing lights flashing
Police racing past cashing
Cars hooting onto the paving
Safer here that where taxis are driving
Some braking wheels squeaking
Kids laughing out with mom shopping
Fingers pointing curiously staring
Homeless person at the robot bagging
My mind preparing next street turning
Up the hill climbing arms pumping
The sun shining my back burning
Tank empty, but somehow enduring
Still wondering ... can’t stop thinking
About this love that I’m feeling
From this natural high I’m getting
Another dose of good medicine
A spiritual rejuvenation
Thank you Lord I’m praying
For this wonderful gift so blessing
Another beautiful run ending
Categories:
bagging, health, sports,
Form:
Rhyme
Dipping into the sea of chores;
Choice if ask, I will relay,
‘Can’t conceive me, taking on turns:
Tussle, fumble; stumble.’
Walking, talking, working the world’s
Routing as far as West;
Bagging routines through days and nights
Should lessons learnt, I rise…
…Beyond the Spartan's head frame mass
And awkward temperate;
To leave nations to last my tomb:
Legacies of my birth.
Jobs I never put forward for,
I don’t look forward to.
My safety is life's struggles
I diva, not differ.
30/11/2014
For Sara Kendrick's Jobs Contest.
Categories:
bagging, jobs, life, senses,
Form:
Verse
Being is something
Living is trying to bat
My nose is heavy
Can a noble effort produce me ?
I am an angel
It's a living at best
No one understands me
The sun came up
The earth stopped spinning
My finger does it's own movement
I am so scared
My pants are bagging
My smile is worn
The everyday elixir
I will not die
I will live
So says you
Categories:
bagging, age,
Form:
Ballad
Today wasn’t a good morning at all for Hassan,
a victual merchant in Baghdad
Thirty four customers got killed by a suicide bomb
A jihadist Arab wearing an explosive vest,
proclaiming to be fighting against the west,
ended up only murdering his own people
The sun rising on the eastern horizon
cast a bloody pale
Screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Ambulance sirens blaring ... death is a hard item to sell
Innocent people shopping for meat, dairy, nuts and fruit,
in a tragic transaction bought the farm
The sign outside the market said half-off,
it didn’t mean exiting with half a leg or one arm
Somehow, Hassan in dust-covered anger survived
He was one of the fortunate few to make it out alive
with every body part intact, except his calm Iraqi mind;
it keeps expanding and contracting
in violent, kinetic convulsions a million times
from such a vile, humanitarian crime
Anxiety fruit flies hover over unsold crates of apricots,
seething vengeance
ferments the not bought bottles of apple vinegar
Mass killing is always bad for business —
a lot of potential repeat customers will only
come to the open air stalls one time
Nobody wants to buy ripe pomegranates, fresh goat milk
and vintage premature dying
Terrorism is bad for consumerism,
fanatical death wish ain’t good for the merchant gift registry
Not when buying a bouquet of flowers becomes a morgue delivery
Suicidal shrapnel kisses don’t welcome tourism,
foreigners eschew dying on vacation ... death ain’t an easy item to sell
Prayer vigil purchases of screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Hassan says business has been bad
ever since that fatal, holiday dawn mourn
Only rueful disaffection comes
with the bagging of the cabbage and corn
Categories:
bagging, dark, death, truth, wisdom,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
Whole people know my story
Feel terribly not so sorry
Made a crazy poems about myself
Just want to put them on my shelf.
Here’s another poem from my lips
Giving lessons from my trips
I’ll keep on writing till end of the day
Though I’ll not receive any good pay.
I can write thousands of words
Write something about your precious Lords
Spend a time right here at my side
My mind is writing from my deepest inside.
It’s not about glory or fame
A passion burning that is so hard to tame
Whether I have good poems or bad,
It’s only way for me not to get sad.
They called me incredible “Lei Strauss”
One who keeps trying and bagging the cross.
I won’t be blinded by your light
All I know my poems are getting to right
Categories:
bagging, life,
Form:
Rhyme
A few days before Thanksgiving,
My sister was not among the living.
Time to celebrate and be giving
Without her, was emotional missing.
Day of giving thanks and blessings
With strong friends and family bonding
Instead mourning and weeping
When our hearts were breaking.
I stare, unable to utter a sound, bagging
To wake up from this nightmare; hiding
The pain, but I can't stop shuddering.
How does one deal with the death of a sibling?
My unforgivable sin of my grief;
If only I knew that our time would be brief.
I would say I love you with lots of hugging.
11/10/2021
''U'' Contest, New Poems Only Poetry Contest 3. unforgivable
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Categories:
bagging, grief, sister, thanksgiving,
Form:
Rhyme
Hillary, dear Hillary—where do we begin?
In your tale of deceit and corrupt political spin.
First lady, poor victim—
‘Vast Right Wing’ to blame,
A Chicago born, carpet bagging, New Yorker—how lame.
For over four decades, you ruthlessly fought,
Every virtuous ideal the forefathers sought.
With convictions as sound—as a lifeboat that sinks,
You’re a Chameleon, Hyena, a slithering snake,
who for votes flip flops often—just whatever it takes!
Stolen funds meant for Haiti, Clerical errors to blame,
at the foundation “helping po folks,” that bears your last name,
problem is—no one knows, where this ‘help’ can be seen.
while your net worth exponentially expands to obscene!
Fat chance ‘crooked Hillary,’ parts with the cash
from your “pay to play” system, illegal and brash.
Your condescension exceeds, what most tolerate,
like a child who needs spanking, or a belligerent inmate.
The fawning from media, won’t take you to task,
over emails, Benghazi, Russian Uranium—they won’t ask!
Liberals, dead voters, and criminals don’t care,
‘bout your pile of dead bodies, or ELITIST fanfare.
Just a history of coincidences—corpses intact,
and secret home email server, foreign governments hacked.
while two former presidents’ lies had your back!
You’re the Eva Perón of the United States,
Your red badge of courage—a life of mistakes
As queen of all feminists, their abortion namesake
Whose politically correct mantra remains,
WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?
Categories:
bagging, america, anger, corruption, farewell,
Form:
Rhyme
Tell me, tell me is it true that a song lives deep within you
In your heart, your soul screaming to come out
Banging on the door, let me in, let me learn, let me love the
one who created all
I want to learn about my God
about his love for you
his love for me
about his mercy and grace
I want to see his face on the day of days
oh, I know that it is true
I know there's a song bagging to be free
living within me.
I want to sing his praises
I want to sing his name so all may know Jesus. God of Gods, King of Kings shine
your love, your light, your grace upon me.
God the father, you sent only son to help us find way back to your loving grace
How beautiful your way, guiding us taday
Loving us the the way you do
Oh, how I long to know you, to see your holy face, your love and grace for the
children you create how merciful your ways
Tell me, tell me is it true that a song lives deep within you
In your heart, your soul screaming to come out
Banging on the door, let me in, let me learn, let me love the
one who created all
Categories:
bagging, dedication, devotion, faith, inspirational,
Form:
Lyric
HARVEST OF VERBS
storing.
vacuum-packing, freezing;
steeping, pickling, smoking;
crushing, slicing, grinding, cutting;
cleaning, peeling, skinning, coring, chopping;
Digging, swathing, raking, collecting, drying, bagging;
…………………………………………………………………………………………
NOTE
This “harvest heap” shape-poem is to be read from the bottom upwards. All harvest operations are in the best order possible, in a single sentence starting with capital “D”, ending with a full stop after the final word “storing”.
Categories:
bagging, autumn,
Form:
Shape
You’re one of The Mortals
To whom others are “Empty Bottles”
You have risen now and again,
Degrees bagging to your own again
At all analyses “Very Good!”
And at Evaluation “Oh! My God!”
Often, The First to be Understood,
No frustrated use of bullying rod.
Still need you to set yourself apart
By being The Proverbial Young at Heart:
Voice for infant’s frame of mind;
I have in mind the toddler just behind
Your sweetly playful Four-Year-Old Son
About to a game start in The Sun …
For that is when in you
The presence of God holds true.
And you become truly a mortal
To whom another is Empty Bottle.
Categories:
bagging, child, education, image, integrity,
Form:
Rhyme
My imagination
My creation
A wonder of greatness
Thoughts of highness
It is a world where I only travel alone
In it I have the power to attain all
No bugs buzzing or bags bagging
Tag all my weaknesses,
And build a tower of strength
To see over the horizons,
I sight with my mind
Imagination serves to save the world
And propels to be limitless.
Categories:
bagging, adventure, assonance, creation, fantasy,
Form:
Free verse
I have a million other contacts
But it only feels right with you.
I try to hide it and not be a drag
But i cant stop myself from feeling blue.
I have everything okay
And a life to live
But why do i feel so broken inside
Empty and repeating the words "what if?"
Sometimes i wonder if im a good friend
Because you're there more often than i.
I wonder if i actually help you
Instead of bagging then passing you by.
But each and every time
Your tone stays the same.
And i'm kind of mesmerized
Happy even if i'm kind of insane.
And one day i hope i can do
So much better, meta morph
Into a better person, complete and strong
So i can give you a small paradise that'll make you smile
Because that's where you belong.
Categories:
bagging, appreciation, art, care, eve,
Form:
ABC
burlap
coarse, cheap
bagging, gardening, covering
potatoes, cork boards / ballet shoes, pillows
wedding, sleeping, dancing
silky, colorful
satin
Written March 12, 2018
Categories:
bagging, 11th grade, beautiful, garden,
Form:
Diamante
I blame Australia for bagging you.
What is bigger than friends, tell me,
A continent; a beach house flat –
Room enough for a pony?
Even the beautiful pond house
Couldn’t keep you.
Although big enough to carry off
A leaving, a parting gift –
Parted us like oceans;
Crushed infinite embraces.
How absurd then, growing up beside you,
Our arms ache for holding too long.
A simple slip off the back of your shoulders,
We fall to ruins.
And kingdoms collapse in the last look,
The sight of you in the rear view mirror
Fills up with shops closing down;
Dead cities creep in.
Dithering down the A road, coughing
Our way back to Millard,
We knew we would see you again,
But not to recognize this time.
Better to keep the last thirty odd years
Locked up in some identity parade;
The three of us, standing there;
Knowing you had got away with murder.
Categories:
bagging, friendship
Form:
Free verse
Free style
Fire travailing and traveling
Lies basking behind
Sorrows burrowing my bones
Empitiness dueling sleeplessness
Vain expectations looming
Kith and kins nagging
Heaven's gate silence
Prayers turn thorns
Tide and time tumbling
Girls gnashing
Money mocking
A wise man of Gotham
Lost in the bin
Looking and lulling
Head empty
Bed bugs bagging
Streets streaming
Echoes hanging in the air
Kisses chasing
Two look at two
Heartbroken, tears conquered
Smile restored
Tomorrow is gone
Today is now
Sex is stupidity
Pleasure is vain
Death is glory
Poverty is honour
Growth a trap
Reality is perception
Who are you
Am just a freestyle
Written by Awoh Kingsley
*the pattern of the above poem is a
freestyle...written when i was depress and
confuse.
8th Jan, 2013
Categories:
bagging, art,
Form: